


can't have one without the other

by stubborn_jerk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 17th Century, Ambiguous Relationships, Fake Marriage, Footnotes, Genderfluid, Historical Inaccuracy, Living Together, Multi, POV Outsider, Rumors, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 04:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubborn_jerk/pseuds/stubborn_jerk
Summary: “What do you have in mind, my dear?”“It’s hardly what’s on my mind that matters, angel, but what’s on yours. I take back a male-shaped corporation and you take my place. Your choice on gender expression, surely. Tell the staff what I am to you, make your own documents. Do your own thing. [...] Regale me with tales of your cover on my return, and if I deem it creative enough, let’s say… I do a century of thwarting and tempting, if you win.”Aziraphale pretended to ponder on this, and Crowley pretended to observe him in anticipation. “And if you’re not convinced it’s creative enough?”“You do it when I ask of you.” Crowley extended his dainty hand, his other resting by the hem of his bodice. “Just another part of the Arrangement, angel. Deal?”





	can't have one without the other

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frank Sinatra's Love and Marriage
> 
> I have no idea what the hell the UK was like in the 17th century and I have no intention to find out. I'm almost 20, I'm broke, and I'm an education major, so you can imagine the kind of stress I'm under.
> 
> Context: this takes place between the Hamlet scene in the Ep3 cold open and a bit after the deleted scene where Aziraphale opened AZ Fell & Co in 1800.

Nearing the turn of the century, watching empires rise and monarchs fall, occult beings are wont to have social meetings. The events leading up to said meetings would, in the future be described with phrases about Hell freezing over and the sky Falling and, most of all, fraternization but 1777 is three decades too soon for that. The Colonies across the pond have started causing quite a fuss, so neither demon nor angel were at all worried about any Head Offices looking their way.

The Colonial fuss was no small thanks, of course, to one angel in particular, earning them commendations from both sides.

“Was that at all necessary though?” Crowley asked, tight red lips pressed even tighter, wiping off nonexistent stray crumbs from his mocking mourning dress.

The dress was a bit of a point of contention, for Aziraphale knew that Crowley was only in a female-looking and -presenting corporation for the sake of whispering dissent into the ears of many of the current empire’s women, social standing notwithstanding. They had both agreed that this would eventually lead to protests and riots, which were their bread and butter*. Heaven and Hell often battled for credit for such things, after all.

[*This was a correct assumption, as these whispers would end up starting what was essentially the women’s suffrage movement. Crowley would sooner discredit this claim in front of infernal company, of course.]

There had been no talk between them of being what appeared to be a dowager or, to that extent, an uprising across the Atlantic.

Still tetchy, Crowley pushed on, “I can admit, of course, that I was at fault with the aftermath of the geniuses in Spain and Portugal. I only meant to steer them right. It rankled, as you know, to hear them say that the Earth was flat. But I had sent you correspondents of my assignments to the Colonies, angel, to have you start intrigue among the stupid men there. _Suggestions_—”

Aziraphale scoffed, gesturing with a cake fork. “Beg pardon, but I _have_ done just that, dear. It is no fault of mine what the they decide to do with the suggestions I give them, as you are aware. Now, if I may. What in God’s na—what on Earth are you wearing?”

“A mourning dress.”

“Dear, you are far from obtuse. Surely, you know what I meant.”

Crowley sighed dramatically, leaning back against his cushioned chair*. “I would call you a fourteenth century thinker, angel, but that would be unfair to your cleverness. Do get creative. You have so many of those blessed books, you can’t even—”

[*A treasonous chair, it was, as well. A spitting image of a gilded throne.]

Aziraphale made a sound of protest. Crowley clucked almost patronizingly at him that Aziraphale had to double-check he wasn’t, in fact, an angel. “Don’t be a _man_, angel. Cut me off for a third time, and I will have you uninvited for a year. This dress, this small-staffed estate: it’s a front, _dear fellow_. It is to ensure that the King himself stays none the wiser about some orphaned unmarried baroness who has not gotten bankrupted yet. We know what happened the _last_ time we attempted that.”

Aziraphale lowered his head in shame and apology. Of course. The last time they’d attempted this staged uprising, Crowley and his corporation had very nearly brought forth the unfortunate fancy of King Henry VIII, saved only by a miracle*. “Of course, my dear. Apologies. I suppose I just hadn’t known this was what I would, er, come back to. Things are happening rather quickly from too many places at the same time. One misses the days of the Fertile Crescent. Those were simpler days.”

[*One yet to be agreed upon if it was either demonic or angelic. Just that it was.]

“And one hopes that you do catch up,” Crowley rebuked drily, eyes closed behind petite glass frames as he sipped at his tea. He opened his eyes, serpentine yellow blazing almost gold as the sun travelled west. His hair was black, burned almost russet in the dim candlelight so close to his edge of the table, hints of grey starting to come in rather unnaturally when contrasted with the youth-smoothened face.

He regarded Aziraphale with an indescribable look as he laid his cup down with a flair of his clean fingernails and a _clink_. “You should try it.”

“Becoming a dowager?”

“So to speak. I might try to fix what has happened in the Colonies with a few blessings. Maybe temptations as well, as the King’s men come in. Let me measure your imagination with this free time, and your grasp on human customs as well.”

He stood with an unnecessary breath. Aziraphale watched with feigned disinterest, wondering just how he managed to fake-breathe in a corset so tight.

Breezily, Crowley added, “I shall be back indefinitely. I’m not sure yet when, but I’ll write you of when I’ll return. I trust you’ll do well _here,_ in your area of expertise. Better than I, at least. Imagine me, becoming widowed and pampered. Pah! Ridiculous enough to sound real. Care to partake in the revelry of creation, _old chap_?”

This last part was said mockingly, and it made Aziraphale sniff derisively. The angel raised a brow at him. “What do you have in mind, my dear?”

A prim, raised brow was Crowley’s smug response. “It’s hardly what’s on my mind that matters, angel, but what’s on yours. I take back a male-shaped corporation and you take my place. Your choice on gender expression, surely. Tell the staff what I am to you, make your own documents. Do your own thing. Though, I must warn you, being a single woman in power takes work.”

“I know how high society functions, my dear, I remember we had a hand in much of its trial periods.”

“_Do_ you?”

Aziraphale tutted. “Don’t be coy.”

“Of course. Well. Regale me with tales of your cover on my return, and if I deem it creative enough, let’s say… I do a century of thwarting and tempting, if you win.”

Aziraphale pretended to ponder on this, and Crowley pretended to observe him in anticipation. “And if you’re not convinced it’s creative enough?”

“You do it when I ask of you.” Crowley extended his dainty hand, his other resting by the hem of his bodice. “Just another part of the Arrangement, angel. Deal?”

With a put-upon sigh that was mostly for dramatics, Aziraphale pulled off his other glove and shook his hand. “Alright, dear. Now, please do change into something less mocking of grieving customs. It’s tacky even for your standards, you foul fiend.”

* * *

Dowager Baroness Arabella Crowley*, or so she was called, slipped silently into the night and was made as though she’d never existed. These things were not uncommon in the English countryside, and whomever questioned it only asked once and never again.

[*Of some Scottish township or some such that, when heard by the well-meaning staff of her house, do not recall ever knowing of it or even reading or hear it from somewhere]

Replacing her came Madam Angela Zeferra Fell*, betrothed to a marginally successful opium supplier named Anthony James Crowley. A majority of their wealth was locked in a safe behind a deceptive sketch of the Mona Lisa that the newer staff have yet to have nicked from Mister Crowley’s study. There has been an attempt once and never again.

[*Of some Welsh township or some such that, when heard by the well-meaning staff of her house, do not recall ever knowing of it or even reading or hear it from somewhere]

Madam Fell had not grown up educated. In whispers, the staff talk of how the fair lady had learned much about the world, of parliament and politics, literature and sciences, from the books that her husband accumulated for her, eager to have her as an equal in knowledge as well as in heart.

She hosted parties with the local women over afternoon tea, kind-hearted as she was to disregard social standing etiquette. She taught them everything she could over a good meal and, soon, started helping them teach their children.

The staff suppose it was because Mister Crowley was not home yet to provide her of her own children that she felt the need to be a kind of surrogate to these young women and younger girls, at times even leaving the comfort of their library to dress in lesser clothes and ride around the manor with them. They’d try their hands at carpentry, pottery, metalwork, things that Madam Fell just had a good grasp on that made the staff whisper about the mysteries of her childhood.

Though the couple didn’t take each other’s names, their devotion to each other was no question to the staff. No, they were quite certain of their union. The good Madam need only be asked of her partner and she would start huffing, fanning over her bosom as she waved a ringed hand around, regaling whoever had asked of tales of their adventures in courtship. Floods and plagues, a garden and an apple. Most of the maids in the staff swooned quite often over the platitudes of Madam Fell and Mister Crowley’s romance.

Letters came from the Americas once every month, often during Madam Fell’s afternoon tea, and she would hem and haw, but would eventually smile as she thanked the staff for the delivery and would have someone send a response to the post by the next morning.

“What d’you think he looks like then?” asked Maud as she threw her weight in with the thyme butter.

“Who?” asked Jesse, one of the maid’s sons.

“Mister Crowley, you simple child. You’ve seen Madam Fell’s face when they exchange letters. You’ve delivered them.”

Jesse scoffed. “Harvey sees more than I do. He works around her in their study, remember? That place is filled to the brim with books. ‘arvey says all she does in there is read, if she’s not huffing over whatever Mister Crowley’s sent.”

“Do you think they’re bein’ naughty in those letters?” Philippa snorted by the stove.

“Whoever and whatever he is,” grumbled he at the thought of fair Madam Fell’s raunchy letters to her yet-to-be-seen husband. “One lucky bastard, if you ask me, landing a woman like Madam Fell.”

* * *

_My dearest, Anthony,_

_Above has given me a commendation for my restraint in providing miracles as of late. Perhaps it is prudent that you make your return so that we may properly do the paperwork for this half century, and that I may get on with using my quota to avert suspicion from our Arrangement._

_On the other hand, I’ve spent many sheaves of paper pondering if I’ve reached your standard of creativity, trying my hand at describing the cover I’ve crafted, but I’ve decided that it remains to be seen. You shall have to see, dear._

_Most of the staff have outgrown me, but none have said anything. More on that later._

_My efforts here have reaped quite the crop. The women around here have grown quite independent, and many of them have left my vicinity. I hear whispers of them now and again, in fields of medicine and some such. I await the commendation I will gain of that more than I do from whatever commendation I will gain from your efforts. Fifty years, dear. I fear you might have gone native there. Dreadful accent, the Americans. Return posthaste to avoid such a thing._

_Do bring home some good first editions, and I shall ensure that the local parish shall preach from the Buggre-All-This Bible for a half month, for your sake._

_Mind how you go._

_Your angel,_

_AZF_

* * *

_AZF,_

_I’ll be in London in three days but shall be at the estate in a week, at the latest. I anticipate a grand celebration for our reunion. I might make it to the Buggre-All service the Sunday I arrive._

_Stay safe._

_With anticipation,_

_Anthony_

_PS. I have high standards, angel. Prove me wrong._

* * *

Aziraphale rarely indulged in sleep, but the years as Madam Fell required enough acting as a human that asked for less nights inside the study and more nights inside his chambers. He’d be damned before he gave Crowley an inch on their bet. A century of work was not a joke to him, after all. Better to take this seriously.

And he was right to.

That night, he wished his maids good night from down the hall and blew out his candle, dressing light and short. His corporation was around five thousand and six hundred years old. It would hold for a couple more millennia, but it was stretched thin on his ethereal soul, letting out more energy than it should. Suffice to say, his body temperature ran high when he wasn’t conscious to maintain it.

When he woke, it wasn’t to sunlight hitting his face, the sun announcing nearing mid-noon. No, what woke him was the bed shifting, something sinking down behind him. He groaned, rubbing a bit at his eyes before turning to look at who—

“Crowley.”

He sat there, coat discarded, sleeves pulled up to his arms, riding pants and boots looking cleaner than they should be. His corporation looked not a day over twenty-five, a neat shadow of a beard framed with his long hair. The light around the chambers were buttery, washing over the beige wallpapers and the fact that Crowley had also discarded his tinted glasses, yellow eyes turning gold as he sat there looking down at him with a smile.

“Angel,” he said. “Good morning.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Crowley.”

He pulled himself up to sit against the headboard, doing nothing to conceal his lightly-dressed state or the mane of his hair. “I didn’t know you were going to be here this early, dear, good morning to you as well. Welcome back.”

“I didn’t know you slept.”

Aziraphale huffed, “You don’t know a great many things about me right now, dear boy, and I do hope you’re eager enough to find out.”

Crowley tutted. “Can’t have that now, can we? I _must_ know a great deal about my wife, as you’ve told the staff.”

He coloured at that. “Oh, _are_ we getting on with that discussion this early in the morning? Can’t I at least get a cup of—”

“Already got it. It’ll be ‘ere in a few moments. Do get dressed.”

Aziraphale drew back at that, glancing down at himself, then squinting up at Crowley. “Why bother, we’re _married_? These are our chambers.”

Crowley chuckled, raising a gloved hand to remove his hair tie, locks cascading down to his back. “Yes, well, do you let the staff see you like that when I’m not here?”

“The staff are honourable and mostly women, dear, so absolutely. I’m not all done up in corsets and layers all the time.”

Crowley pushed himself up off the bed, removing his riding* gloves with the motion. “Of course, of course. Pardon me for trying to protect the dignity of my wife.”

[*State and purpose of his clothes aside, Crowley did not ride horses. These were purely aesthetic choices.]

Aziraphale sniffed and pushed the covers away to slide his feet off the bed. As he did, the door creaked open, and Maud’s familiar mousy hair peaked in. “Good morning. You rang for some tea and breakfast, sir?”

“Yes,” Crowley laid his gloves down by the nightstand, approaching the door with his hands out. “We’ll have it here, ma’am, thank you.”

“Polite this morning, aren’t you, dear,” Aziraphale teased. Crowley threw him a look as he turned to wheel in the cart.

“Move over, angel.”

“Lovely morning, Maud,” Aziraphale called out in greeting.

“To you as well, ma’am. Have a great time with the sir,” came her teasing remark before the door clicked shut behind her.

Crowley grunted, setting the plates of breads and eggs and such on the bed and checking the teapot for the leaves. “Bunch of gossips, our staff, aren’t they?” He bent down afterwards to start unlacing his riding boots.

Aziraphale shrugged airily, plucking a piece of bread. “They’re good people. Far be it from me to tell them to stop when I control their wages already. So long as they don’t tarnish my books, then I’ve no quarrel with them.”

“Why, of course not.”

Aziraphale huffed at the demon’s tone, but politely waited for him to shove aside his riding boots before he leaned forward to pour their tea. “So, how were the Americans?”

“I was completely useless, infernally. Oh, thanks.” Crowley grabbed the teacup and saucer from him, pouring in milk and three sugars for himself*. “Your commendations came in because I had to infer a lot more work on blessings over there. I’m glad they even came through for Above to notice any of my efforts.”

[*Crowley used to take his tea as it was, but American cuisine had given him a bit of an indulgent sweet tooth. If asked, he would cite sweet tea, even though there hadn’t been any sweet tea documented into existence when he’d been in America during the 17th century. Aziraphale asked once, was ashamed of ever asking, and never asked again.]

Aziraphale winced. “That bad?”

“Positively awful, the lot of them. Slavery, mass genocide, ethnic cleansing. Loads of guns, as well. _Oodles_ of ‘em. Not even starting in on the state of their government. Brits are awful, but Yankees _really_ set the stage for something catastrophic, y’know?”

Aziraphale hummed, displeased. He made sure to let Crowley see the frown on his face by looking at him long enough before taking a bite. Some things just required conspicuousness. “Any good news, then? Or at least something you genuinely liked?”

Crowley gave that a thought as he grabbed a piece of bread. It was a useless motion. Crowley rarely ever indulged in eating, and when he did, it was to try something Aziraphale asked him to. He seemed tense enough to want to find something to do with his hands.

It took three more pieces of bread before Crowley paused and said, “I read some of the first editions I got you. They were… alright, I suppose. They favour more nonfiction things there, so I got you a couple of those as well.”

Aziraphale made a noise of interest, muffled by eggs and bread. He nodded for Crowley to go on, nibbling on the scone. “And where—”

“All lined up by the desk in the study. Managed to get them out of the chest before coming in here. I’ll have someone wheel it in with lunch.” He put his cup down the stretched his arms over his head, inciting a few ominous cracks. “I was planning to take a few days’ nap myself but, well. Have to keep up appearances.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Nonsense, dear. We’ll just stay in here for the meantime. Have the staff think what they want of what goes in behind closed doors.”

Crowley snorted into his tea. “How proper of you, Madam Fell.”

“I don’t know why I have to remind you, but we live here, Mister Crowley, and seeing as you’ve been working quite hard at your opium business, you deserve some time to rest.”

Crowley threw his head back to laugh at that. “_Opium_? Oh, you got creative. Well, tell me then, _love_, what have you told the poor old staff?”

* * *

Maud gestured through the door for Jesse and Harvey, gathering around the staff. “I’ve seen ‘im. You too, haven’t you, Harvey?”

“Yes,” came Harvey’s amused response. “He required assistance with his souvenirs.”

Jesse scrunched up his nose. “What?”

“Things he’s brought back from America.”

Philippa grumbled, “Well, say that next time, make us feel less daft. So, is he a looker, then?”

Maud nodded vigorously. “Total charmer. He and Madam Fell make quite the pair. Tall, a bit lanky, and he wore dark glasses.”

“Be more specific,” pushed Jesse.

“His hair was brown, a bit red under a certain light. He was very polite. I can see why such an honourable and bright lady like Madam Fell married him. Remember when she told us about how they met at an orchard? Oh, seeing someone like that, dappled with sunlight on a bright afternoon. No wonder she fell.”

“Pun intended?”

Maud looked at Philippa, then brightened, clapping her arm with a giggle. “Oh! Yes, I suppose so.”

“Excuse me?”

All four of them looked up to see Mister Crowley with the breakfast cart. His clothes were in quite a state, top unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of dark curly hairs on his chest, hair untied and askew in an artful way, tumbling down one shoulder.

“Yes, sir?”

Crowley gave them an amicable smile. There was a bit of a mysterious air about it, what with his eyes being obscured. “Angela says to bring in the lunch cart by noon. Grab the Anne Bradstreet and John Milton books from the study with it. We’re staying in.”

Philippa mouthed ‘Angela’ with comically wide eyes, earning an elbow from Jesse.

“Certainly, sir,” Harvey responded, walking up to grab the cart from him. “Bradstreet and Milton. Anything else?”

“I think that’s it.” Crowley gave up the cart gratefully and moved to open the door to their chambers.

Maud stepped up just before he could enter, calling out, “Oh, will the meeting this afternoon be cancelled as well?”

Crowley glanced into the room, as if inferring to Madam Fell from the doorjamb. “Are you teaching this afternoon, angel?”

Philippa hissed, “_Angel_.”

This time, it was Maud who elbowed her.

“Oh,” came Madam Fell’s muffled response. “Yes, if you don’t mind, love. We’ll be a few doors down in the sun room. We’ll try to keep it down, but I shan’t promise anything. You can sit in with us any time, if you like.”

Crowley gave a broad, close-mouthed grin, then nodded over to Maud. “There you have it, ma’am. Classes continue. Now, if you all don’t mind, I have some catching up to do.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Philippa quipped, “I bet you he meant that they’re shagging.”

“Pippa, I swear on all that is holy—”

“What, it’s true!”

* * *

“You’re ridiculous, angel,” Crowley said, sinking into the mattress after stripping down. His eyelids were getting heavier as he spoke. “They think we’re shagging in here.”

“Dear, you’re the one who told them we had catching up to do.”

“They were goin’ to think it anyway. Jussst feeding into base desiressss and all. I think that young’un fancies you.”

“Jesse?”

“Other one.”

“Pippa? Dear, are you certain?”

Crowley hummed, eyes blinking shut. “Could ssssee it. Sure, Jesse fellow likes you, but Pip was ‘maginin’ real naughty thingssss. You goin’ down on me, me doin’ you. Usual human impulsesss. A whole lot of _you_ though. Your corporation’s no joke. _Told_ you to cover up for the staff.”

Aziraphale huffed. “That’s hardly appropriate.”

“Sss’my job, angel. Can’t help it if they air out their desires like that.”

Aziraphale settled into the covers next to Crowley. “So, how was my cover?”

Crowley hummed, then opened one serpentine eye to look at him. “Certainly convinced a group of humans about how incredibly smitten we are with one another.”

“Barely lifted a finger for that one.”

“No cheating?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

Crowley turned so that his face wasn’t pushed up against the pillows, back to the mattress, the profile of his face stark against the brightness of the day outside. “Well… I like that it’s a simple cover. Practical, minimal use of lies, which I know is important to you.”

Aziraphale hummed for him to continue.

“But.”

Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley breathed a laugh. “Don’t give me that, angel, I’m trying to be objective here. I told you to be _creative_, not practical.”

“I even made us marriage certificates and a history,” he whined, pushing a bit at Crowley’s arm. “I knew they were gossips, so I gave them something to talk about.”

“Oh, like how we met in an orchard when we were young?”

Aziraphale coloured.

“Not very creative, angel,” he sang.

“Oh, fine,” Aziraphale huffed. “At least I tried. A century of work, then.”

“On my request,” he tacked on. “I didn’t say it had to be now. Besides, I have something for you so that it’s not all bad for you.”

“I _asked_ for the books, Crowley, that’s barely a consolation.”

“No, not that.”

Crowley pushed himself up, twisting around to reach for the bag by the chair on the corner of the room. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it there before, perhaps Crowley had miracled it into the room without him knowing.

There was the sound of shuffling papers, then Crowley made his way back into bed, holding out two bundles of papers.

Aziraphale grabbed the one handed to him, making no effort to even sit up to read it*. “Property in King Square… two lots from the corner. What’s this for, dear?”

[*One of the perks that came with being an occult being was that they chose to have ailments and bodily functions like sense of temperature and deteriorating eyesight. Aziraphale, likewise, didn’t need to worry about having to look for a decent light source to read by.]

“Times are changing, angel. With things brewing in France, I feel like we won’t be able to maintain this manor and the staff for long, so I bought us property in London as a failsafe. There’s a place for your books.”

Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley, then at his bundle of papers. “And that?”

Crowley handed it over to him. “An investment.”

Aziraphale gasped, then sat up. “Crowley, this is—”

“Yeah.”

He lowered the papers, then smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners to near tears. “Dear, this is so—"

“Don’t say it, angel, please. It’s just, I know you need a space for your collection, and right now, London is a hub for writers and academics. I know you want to be close to the action, so I got us a place to stay—”

Aziraphale leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, dear. Now, lay down and nap until whenever. I won’t bother you to come to class with me but I might wake you for food.”

Crowley stared at him, brows furrowed, yellow eyes searching. Aziraphale didn’t back down, only smiled beatifically with such surging warmth, bursts of love emanating from him.

Without another word, Crowley laid back down and slept.

* * *

_A century later…_

“You’re quite fortunate to not have run into Gabriel on your way in again,” Aziraphale said, straightening the haphazard tartan, laced ribbon by his neck, a nervous tic Crowley observed he’d developed recently after turning his corporation back to male-presenting. “It would have caused a scandal. I mean, how ridiculous, promoting me to desk work then demoting me back to field work. If they found the Adversary at my doorstep with a box of chocolates, they’d have sacked me on the spot then turned around to smite you. The Almighty’s ways continue to baffle, dear.”

“You tell me,” Crowley mumbled, eyeing a few of the spines as he walked past them. “One minute I’m asking what’s so great about humans, the next I’m set to find out for myself.”

Aziraphale popped another bonbon into his mouth, harried and sullen. “I can’t bear to think of the consequences if they had ran into you. They would have to cast me out for my grief, mind you. I’d be practically inconsolable. I’m starting to think you should move out just to stay safe.”

Crowley paused, looking behind his shoulder. “Run that by me again?”

Aziraphale blinked, then looked up at Crowley from his comfortable chair in the back room. “Dear, I mean no harm from it. It’s just, I can’t bear it if you end up getting a good smiting under my watch. Or worse, just because they found you around me. They haven’t thought to check up in millennia! And now suddenly they’re checking up every few years? What, just because of ‘too many frivolous miracles’?” He scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

Crowley took one thing from all that. “You’re kicking me out?”

Aziraphale froze. “What, no! I already got you a place to stay. It’s just indefinite, love. Just until they stop dropping in. _Please_, Crowley, if not for me then for you. I don’t want you dying on me.”

Crowley turned to face him completely, hands in trouser pockets, Eldredge knot just a bit askew. His face was inscrutable, stony with the lack of expression from his eyes. “Do you mean that or is it just for the Arrangement?”

“Bit of both, really,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But mostly because you’re really very dear to me. I would rather you not die because of me. And it won’t be too far off. Just a small walk, maybe even meet up in St. James’ Park. It’ll be lovely.”

Crowley stared at him for a few moments longer, then gave a begrudging sigh. “What’ll happen to the ‘& Co.’ part of A. Z. Fell & Co. then. S’posed to be a tribute to your so-called mother, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale gave him a snide smirk. “Very clever. You’re still on the lease, dear, you’re just not living in the flat with me. I assure you it won’t be much change.”

Crowley turned back to the shelves, staring unseeingly at the titles. “If you say so, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: found some inconsistencies in the TV timeline and it's already done so whatever. i guess aziraphale's known crowley's name since the 17th century and didn't think crowley would keep it? my guess is as good as yours, reader
> 
> Then they fight about holy water and Crowley ends up using his win to take a long-ass nap. I like to think Hell nipped in a bit and set him off just like Heaven did to convince Aziraphale that he was promoted or sth. Who knows.
> 
> Anyway, I hope that wasn't too inaccurate. Any and all typos/mistakes are my fault because it's midnight and I'm not sure if I have school tomorrow.
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://stubbornjerk.tumblr.com) and my twitter, where I shout about GO all the time is [here](http://twitter.com/stubborn_jerk). @ me and I'll come running about my insights and headcanons.


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